Brilliance
by fandomsgirl48
Summary: really short oneshot about teenlock watching John at a rugby game. I might refine this and extend it into a full length fanfic :')


John wiped his brow hurriedly, lifting the bottle of liquid to his lips. The rest of the team were thumping each other's backs and howling in excitement, but John was searching the stands for a certain person. It was half time, and Sherlock still hadn't turned up. John tried to fight back the disappointment biting at his sides- he had probably lost track of time in the ballet studio. The rugby player refocused on the team, who were huddling and discussing tactics, presumably. John slotted his way into the ring of burly teenagers, and listened attentively to his co-captain, Mike Stamford, declaring the usual speech on how they were guaranteed victory.

"Anything to add, John?" Mike finally gasped, but the whistle prompted sounded, and the circle broke. John reluctantly took his position, and adjusted his shin pads.

"Sherlock will turn up, John. You know how he is," Mike said some-what awkwardly from behind him. John nodded, and grinned slightly too wide at Mike.

"I know Mike. And its not that important that he hasn't come- it's only the semi final," he said. Mike nodded, and clapped John's shoulder.

John quickly engaged himself in the game, ruthlessly tackling his opponents and spinning the ball to his teammates. John had always enjoyed rugby more than other sports- it was more vicious and tiring and passionate than football, or cricket. During games, and today was no exception he found his thoughts drifting involuntarily to Sherlock -his dark curls and alien eyes and lanky muscular legs…

Suddenly mud was embedded in his mouth, and he inhaled the distinctive scent of grass. His body was being crushed by an oppressive force- an opponent had tackled him while he was distracted. John could have kicked himself, but settled for laughing good naturedly and accepting Mike's hand. His eyes automatically scanned the cheering crowds for his boyfriend- and Sherlock was standing there, ballet leggings and all, wearing one of John's jumpers and a small smile of pride. John positively beamed at the lanky boy, and Sherlock half raised his hand as a greeting.

"Maybe now you'll be on top form, Johnny," Mike called, which was followed by wolf whistles and laughter from the team. John blushed, but felt a new power surging through his muscles as he threw himself into the game. He felt the ball quivering in his arms, and he sprinted with new found purpose down the pitch.

The condemning cry of John's team's victory led to uncontrollable shouting and embraces throughout the pitch. John happily sank into a victorious tangle of limbs, and replayed the winning try in his mind- he hoped he could keep that memory eternally. When he was finally released, John's gaze fell upon Sherlock, standing uncertainly at the side of the pitch. Relief flooded over John, and he jogged over to where the taller, but slimmer teen was.

"I'm sorry I was late, I was-" John cut Sherlock off by crashing his lips against the other boy's. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, and John entangled his fingers in Sherlock's ridiculous curls, and they were so at peace and lost in each other that they didn't notice both teams applauding them, or Mike Stamford accepting some money from another team mate, or the fact that they had openly flaunted their relationship to the rest of the school. Sherlock drew away to rest his forehead against John's, and gave him a rare smile.

"You were brilliant, out there," he mumbled. John chuckled, and brushed a curl out of Sherlock's eyes.

"Thanks for coming. I know the performance is coming up and you're busy," John replied, conscious of the rest of the team beginning to leave. There was a party happening at one of his mate's houses, and although John wanted to go, he wasn't sure if Sherlock would subject himself to it.

The warmth left Sherlock's eyes as he unleashed his calculating gaze on the teenagers behind John, and looked back to stare at John somewhat sadly.

"You can go, you know. I won't- you know what they're like," Sherlock trailed off, and John clenched his fists. John was very well liked, but sadly this didn't extend to Sherlock- the homosexual ballet dancer, who could rip you apart with his analytical deductions. John loved Sherlock's mind, and adored his dance, but these traits didn't bode well with the judgmental society that the couple existed in.

"You know I'd rather stay with you," John told the taller boy, and the rugby captain wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist, and led him back to Sherlock's motor bike, while Sherlock tried to ignore the scathing glares of the less accepting members of John's team, and focused on John's arms around his middle and John's breath on his neck as they started the journey home.


End file.
